


Dizzy Stargazers

by stardropdream



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Season 8 Doesn't Exist, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-20 12:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18126413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: Shiro's sick after a long few days of negotiations for the coalition, but he figures he can handle it. All he has to do is get back to the Atlas, focus on his work, and he'll be fine.But then, of course, Keith's the one who comes to pick him up. And when has Shiro ever been able to hide anything from Keith?





	Dizzy Stargazers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valkyriepilot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valkyriepilot/gifts).



> Fic request from [Jill](https://twitter.com/EphemeraBlossom), who requested sick Shiro and Keith taking care of him. Naturally, it got away from me... Hope you enjoy. Thank you! ♥
> 
> And a huge thank you to gc who listened to me brainstorm and/or shout about editing for this fic (plus Sarah, Audrey, and Ana lmao I was talking about this fic a lot this week).
> 
> (Edited November 2019 for typos/grammar.)

The Atlas scout flyer docks at 0800 hours, just in time for Shiro to _really_ start feeling like shit. 

Shiro watches it dock, stone-faced with the Arkarian and Dytavi diplomats, hands tucked behind his back and shoulders rigid. He’s the perfect face of a reserved, resolved captain. But inside, all he wants to do is keel over. 

“We are honored to have had your assistance in this matter, Captain Shirogane,” the Arkarian leader announces, expressionless. The Arkarians and Dytavi value the lack of expression and the leader blinks his many sets of eyes slowly at Shiro, a sign of respect.

Shiro glances at the scout’s ship with no small amount of longing. There’s still a long way to go before he’s back on the Atlas, and likely once he’s there, he’ll have to hit the ground running. As usual. Much as he’s appreciated the shift from fighting to diplomacy since the war ended, right now he’s just ready to collapse. 

When Shiro turns to the diplomats, he sways a little, his body feeling weighted down. But he's sure to return the traditional gesture. He blinks as slowly as possible and lets his eyes stay shut for a moment longer than he feels comfortable. 

“The honor is mine.” 

“We bid you farewell,” the Dytavi leader affirms with another slow blink. “And look forward to the ways in which we can assist the Universal Coalition.” 

And that’s the heart of it. Shiro might be feeling awful, but it’s worth it to get this peace treaty signed. He gives his farewells to the small band of diplomats, and they retreat from the hangar to let Shiro disembark. Apparently, they aren’t ones for sentimentality. 

Shiro turns his attention back towards the flyer and heaves a long sigh. Diplomacy is long, slow work and most days it leaves Shiro’s skin itching. But it’s worth it if it means bringing peace to the universe. Working nonstop, even with a cold, is worth it. Nobody here even knows how awful he’s feeling, anyway. It’ll be fine. 

And then Keith steps out of the Atlas scout flyer and Shiro knows he’s doomed. 

Shiro absolutely does not startle when he spots Keith, although a jolt snaps down through his spine. He resists the urge to scrub a hand through his hair, to smooth out his clothes, to rub at his eyes. He knows he looks awful. Arkar and Dytavirum might not have mirrors in their culture, but they have shiny enough surfaces on their ship that Shiro’s caught glimpses of himself over the last few days: he looks like hell. 

Keith will notice that right away. Shiro’s always admired Keith’s unerring observation and sharp insights, but in this case, he knows he’s about to worry Keith for nothing. 

Regardless, Shiro’s spent the last however many quintants stone-faced, and seeing Keith drop down effortlessly from the opening of the flyer is enough for Shiro’s expression to ripple and then split into a wide smile. If the Arkarians and Dytavi could see him now, they’d be scandalized by the blatant show of affection. He can never help that twist of anticipation in his gut whenever he sees Keith now, that small thread of tension that bunches at his shoulders. 

Expectation, and the unexpressed. Like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff, just waiting for the right moment to topple over it. Too fast, and you crash. Too slow, and there’s not enough lift. He knows the trajectory well. An expectation. An almost. A _maybe._

Weeks ago now, Keith tugged him aside before a Blade mission and murmured, _There’s something we need to talk about._ He’d promised to talk with Shiro after his mission with the Blades, and then that mission turned into another mission with the Paladins, and then Shiro was juggling captaincy, other humanitarian efforts, and now his own mission. They just kept missing each other. 

It’s been weeks and Keith still hasn’t told Shiro what he wanted to say. It hangs between them every time they’ve stolen a few minutes of talking on viewscreens. Expectation. Plenty of time for Shiro to question and overthink. Plenty of time for Shiro to get his hopes up. 

_There’s something we need to talk about._

Keith steps away from the flyer, all confidence and fluid movement. Like liquid fire, Shiro thinks— like the promise of heat uncontained, swift and coiling. That’s what steals Shiro’s breath the most, some days— the surety with which Keith holds himself, that confidence that radiates off him like a burning sun. He’s so much surer now. He’s always said what he thinks, has always meant what he says, but now it radiates off him, offered freely, without reservation. 

Sometimes it knocks Shiro over, just how much Keith’s grown, just what sort of man he’s become. 

Shiro watches Keith sweep his helmet off his head. His braid comes tumbling down his back and little wisps of hair fall to frame his face. He looks perfect. He always looks perfect. 

Keith approaches him and Shiro’s still beaming at him. There’s an almost-smile on Keith’s face, a mirror to Shiro’s grin. But it fades away by degrees with each step until, standing in front of Shiro, Keith merely studies Shiro's face and frowns. 

The first thing he says to Shiro in days is, “Are you okay?” 

Shiro knew Keith would notice. He noticed faster than Shiro expected, but maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. 

“Just tired,” Shiro answers, dismissive. He sounds breathless to his own ears when he adds, “Hi, Keith.” 

Keith doesn’t quite smile again, but his eyes soften at the edges. Shiro watches them flicker, tracing over Shiro’s face. “Hi, Captain.” 

Shiro does not shiver at the title, but it’s an almost thing. “Didn’t realize I’d be getting the Black Paladin himself escorting me back.” He grins, teasing. “What makes me so special?”

Keith shakes his head, stepping closer. Keith does smile this time. But while his smile is playful, it’s edged with worry as he continues to study Shiro’s face. “As if I’d trust anybody else to bring you home.” 

“Well,” Shiro answers, feeling hushed, his heart hammering in his chest. “Who’s better at that than you?”

Keith shakes his head, cheeks pink. His smile is small, almost secretive, as he looks down and then glances up at Shiro through his hair. “Coran messaged me from the Atlas— said you were done with negotiations. I was on my way back, so it wasn’t any trouble to loop around and come get you.” 

“I’m happy to see you,” Shiro says, before he can think to cushion how hopeless he sounds. The words tumble out of him before he can second-guess it. 

Usually he can keep a tighter control on it. It’s true that over the last few years, since the war’s ended, they’ve stayed just as close— Keith’s hand lingering at his arm, Shiro’s on Keith’s shoulder. Long looks and small smiles. 

_There’s something we need to talk about._ Some days, Shiro thinks they’re rushing towards an inevitable. Shiro’s not an idiot. He knows the vibe when he feels it, and it’s hard to think that Keith isn’t giving him the vibe in almost any scenario. 

Like right now. Keith’s cheeks darken more, and he tucks a piece of hair behind his ear when he says in a quiet little murmur, “You too, Shiro.” 

But then there are the other days, when Shiro doubts— when Keith needing to talk to him means letting Shiro down gentle. Means Shiro’s been too obvious, hasn’t tried to hide the way his hand lingers at Keith’s back. He knows Keith loves him. _You’re my brother,_ Keith once said, splayed out on his back, voice hitching and desperate. And even before that, his voice pleading as he said, _You’re like a brother to me._

“Have you slept at all?” Keith asks, because of course he won’t let it go. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Shiro this entire time. And, at the end of the day, he’s too good at reading him. Keith knows everything about Shiro, even the parts of himself he tries to tuck away. 

“I slept,” Shiro says, slowly, considering. 

“Oh yeah? When?” Keith asks. He leans back on his heels, crossing his arms over his chest and staring Shiro down. It’s hard to say no to Keith on the best of days, even more so when he’s hyper-focused on something. This, it seems, is one of those somethings. 

Shiro frowns, trying to remember the last time he was off his feet for longer than three tics. His pause is long enough that Keith starts to look alarmed, his eyebrows hitching up towards his hairline. 

“Um,” Shiro fumbles. “I took a twenty-minute nap after the first meeting?” 

“Shiro.” Keith sounds strained, definitely alarmed now. “That was two days ago!” 

“Was it?” Shiro asks, faint, but trusts Keith’s sense of time more than his own. It’s been a never-ending run-around on the ship here. If it’s not a diplomatic meeting, then it’s the drafting of documents, or reporting back to Atlas, or remembering to eat hours after it’s too late to find food, or staring at the wall and wondering when he’ll be able to die the true death. 

The truth is, Shiro feels flushed, a little jittery and a little shaky on his feet. The truth is, Shiro hates to ever admit he might be sick. It calls up too many memories from before, of hospital beds and his teeth clenched tight in his jaw, blood drawn and muscle relaxants. Metal bracelets around his wrists. 

“What could you have possibly been doing this whole time?” Keith presses. 

Shiro smiles helplessly. “Everyone wants a captain’s opinion.” 

Keith looks angry— but Shiro knows it’s not at him, that it’s only concern and frustration on his behalf. That’s just the way Keith’s always been. Fiercely loyal and devastatingly protective of him. Shiro knows that if he said the word, Keith would go storming after the diplomats and cause an intergalactic incident for the sake of defending Shiro’s sacrificed sleep schedule. 

“Yeah, well, does the captain want _my_ opinion?” Keith asks. 

Shiro already knows what Keith’s going to say, but still he answers, “Always.” 

Keith’s eyes burn, fire and embers, and he hooks his hand into the crook of Shiro’s elbow and tugs. “I think it’s time to get you out of here.” 

 

-

 

Shiro’s wooziness hits him fully as they get settled in the scout flyer. Even just pulling himself up into the ship leaves him feeling fatigued, his muscles aching and his body feeling too shaky, like now that his body realizes the job is over, it’s time to slowly shut down. 

He hates this feeling most of all. He clamps down on it tight and forces himself to take a seat beside Keith as Keith begins the procedure to disembark. It’s a little ship, comfortable and designed for scouting missions and skip-overs. Everything matches the Atlas’ aesthetic, cool grey and steady orange and the lights cup against the line of Keith’s jaw as he works, casting him in that familiar glow. 

“Do you want to lie down?” Keith asks, inputting the necessary codes to get the engine roaring to life again. 

“I’m fine,” Shiro answers. 

He sees Keith’s brow furrow, but he doesn’t voice any protests or press Shiro. Keith never tells Shiro what he should or shouldn’t do. It’s always a question and it’s one of the many things that Shiro loves about Keith. Just another little thing on a long list, the bottom line spelling out, as always, his utter devotion to Keith. 

Shiro tucks himself into his seat and just watches Keith. His movements are swift and calculated. He lifts a hand, tucking a little piece of hair behind his ear again as he flips the last switches for take-off preparation. 

It isn’t just that Shiro hasn’t slept, it’s that he hasn’t really eaten anything— the Arkarians’ cuisine leaves something to be desired. It’s that he can feel a flush running through his skin, a steady-pulsing headache in his temples— stress and dehydration, he thinks. He can keep it locked down until they get back to the Atlas, he figures. He’s good at compartmentalizing. 

“I should have been with you the whole time,” Keith grumbles as he pilots the ship out of the loading dock. “I would have made sure you slept.” 

Keith's grumpiness is endearing, Shiro thinks. Watching Keith, Shiro plants his elbow against the arm-grip of the seat, then rests his cheek against his palm. He smiles a little at Keith’s words, at the fierce protectiveness Keith’s always had. 

“You were on a mission.” 

“Whatever. The Blades can handle things on their own.” Keith glares out the viewport as they leave the Arkarian ship and head out towards space. It’ll take the better part of a solar-cycle to get back to the Atlas. Keith adds, “ _You’re_ more important.” 

Shiro feels warm all over, and not just because he thinks he might have a fever. “Thanks, Keith.”

Keith’s cheeks turn pink and he ducks his head, adjusting the starboard wing’s stabilizing engine. The radar screen beeps cheerfully once as the course adjusts and locks in. And they’re off, leaving the Arkarian ship behind. 

“So,” Shiro says, aiming for conversational as best he can. “Tell me how your mission went? I feel like it’s been forever since we last got to talk.”

He sees Keith’s smile quirk at the corner, his eyes soft. “Shiro,” he teases, glancing at him, “It’s only been a few days since we last talked.”

“Forever,” Shiro agrees just because he knows it’ll make Keith laugh. 

And Keith does, his laugh rich and deep and flooding Shiro with affection. Shiro feels warm all over and he can’t help but smile, muffling it against his palm as he leans in his seat. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Keith says, fondly, and lets go of the ship’s controls as it switches into autopilot and turns towards Shiro, kicking one leg up to plant his foot on the pilot’s seat, folding himself into something that can’t actually be comfortable but is, somehow, Keith’s go-to sitting position. 

Shiro opens his mouth to say something else but then Keith plucks off the glove from his armor and leans forward, hand lifting and touching Shiro's cheek. The touch is easy, simple— the same way Keith’s touched him so many times before in the recent phoebs. His hand slides, thumb catching along the jut of Shiro's cheekbone, and Shiro tries not to shiver, eyes blinking wide at him. 

“You feel warm,” Keith says. And Shiro should have known he wouldn’t drop this. 

“The Dytavi prefer a warmer atmosphere,” Shiro dismisses. “That entire ship was sweltering the whole time I was there.” 

He doesn’t want Keith to move his hand. But he also doesn’t want to worry Keith. He can push through it. He’s dealt with worse sicknesses before. As a kid, he was a master of hiding colds from his grandmother, who took every little sniffle and scratch as a death knell, one last hurrah for her grandson before he kicked the bucket. 

Keith, though, is far more tenacious than even his persistent grandmother. Keith’s fingers trace Shiro’s jaw— and that does cause a shiver— before he pulls his hand away with a thoughtful frown. 

“They’re working you too hard,” Keith mutters. He looks angry again, his jaw clenched tight and flexing, his eyebrows pinched together. It is, Shiro thinks, entirely unfair that Keith can look handsome even when pissed off. 

“It’s all work I’m willing to do,” Shiro reminds him. 

“You’re not a machine, Shiro.” 

Something quiets in Shiro’s chest and he reaches out, pressing his hand to Keith’s shoulder. It’s tensed, the ropes of his muscles bunched up. He can feel it even beneath the plates of Keith’s armor. Keith relaxes marginally at Shiro’s touch, though, or at least his eyes ease at the corners, and Shiro lets his hand linger there. He squeezes once and says nothing. 

After a moment, Keith just sighs and lifts his hand, covering Shiro’s. Keith squeezes his wrist, thumb pressing at his pulse point. He always does that. Shiro isn’t even sure if Keith’s aware he does that, always making contact with Shiro but, more importantly, always seeking that proof that his heart is still beating. 

And it is. It thunders hard in Shiro’s chest, speeding up the longer Keith touches him. 

 

-

 

One hour into the flight back to the Atlas, Shiro really starts to feel like he’s about to fall over out of his seat. Maybe it’s easy enough to ignore a fever when you’re sweating it out in a humid ship built for amphibian alien life. Maybe it’s difficult to ignore how crappy you feel when all you have to do for the better part of a day is sit and stare into the endless abyss of space with your best friend. 

Maybe it was the Arkarian swallowtoad he had for breakfast yesterday morning, finally coming back around to murder him from the inside out. It doesn’t _feel_ like food poisoning, but then again, Shiro can’t recall the last time he got food poisoning, much less from alien cuisine, even to compare to how that should feel. Regardless of the source, it’s difficult to disguise the full-body shivering he’s currently doing, all curled up in his seat and trying to be subtle about the fact that he feels like he’s literally about to die. He _knows_ what it feels like to die, too. It’s an apt comparison. 

Naturally, Keith notices. He probably hasn’t stopped noticing since the very moment he laid eyes on Shiro in the hangar. Keith heaves a heavy breath and punches a few buttons on the control panel. 

“Shiro,” he says.

“I’m fine,” he answers before Keith can continue. 

Keith’s expression pinches, jaw clenching. Shiro can’t exactly blame him. He _knows_ he’s being exceptionally stubborn. Shiro knows how to wait, how to be patient, after all. This is no different. He can out-stubborn anyone. Even Keith. 

So naturally, Keith has to play dirty. 

“Shiro, you know I trust you,” Keith says, voice slow and colored with his annoyance. “I trust you to know what you need, but… please. At least take a nap? I can handle a set course trajectory to the Atlas on my own.”

“It’s not—” Shiro fumbles over the words, over the need to assure Keith. He shakes his head. “I know you can, Keith. That’s not why…” 

He turns towards Keith to find Keith already leaning into his space, closer than before. He leans into the little space between their seats, hovering close. His hand lifts and touches Shiro’s face again. His thumb slides against his cheek and Shiro feels its slow, intense drag over his skin. He shivers. 

“Shiro,” Keith murmurs, and there’s that charge again between them. Keith’s leaning in closer to him, his hand on his face, his eyes bright and intense. 

“We haven’t been able to spend a lot of time together,” Shiro says. “I just… want to hang out with you.” 

Keith makes a soft sound, something caught between mournful and surprised. 

“Okay,” Keith whispers, softly, and Shiro thinks that he’s going to let it go. But then Keith stands up, dropping his hand and hopping off his seat. 

The absence of Keith’s hand on his cheek feels more like a brand than when his palm cupped his jaw. “Wha—”

“ _I’m_ going to go take a nap,” Keith says, hands on his hips. He gives Shiro a long look. “Want to come with me? Or you can sit out here and be miserable all by yourself.” 

“But, the controls—” 

“If anything shows up on the radar, it’ll alert me. It’s a small ship, Shiro.” 

Shiro fumbles for another viable excuse. It’s a low-blow, but Shiro can’t blame Keith for it. He considers, for a moment, being stubborn and staying out here to drive the ship just to prove a persistent, stupid point. But in the end he relents, sighing and standing up from his seat, too. 

“I won’t be able to fall asleep. You know I’m bad at napping,” Shiro says as he follows Keith to the back of the ship. Each flyer’s equipped with a modest living space, to account for long journeys. Nothing too fancy, just a nook for a murphy bed and an foldable kitchenette. The doors to the little back room slide shut behind them. 

“I know,” Keith says. “You’re bad at anything that involves taking care of yourself.” 

Shiro makes a small sound of protest. “Not everything.”

“Everything,” Keith repeats, giving him a frankly exceptional side-eye as he fiddles with the straps holding back the murphy bed. “The perfect Takashi Shirogane has flaws. It’s shocking, I know.” 

Shiro isn’t quite sure how to respond to that and so settles for something that _isn’t_ a moody pout. He knows, objectively, that he’s being stupid and childish. It isn’t even that he hates the idea of Keith taking care of him— the opposite, really— but rather that deep, unsettling need to be useful, to keep pushing, to do what has to be done. 

Keith is unmoved by the not-a-pout. Instead, he tugs down the murphy bed and clamps it into its horizontal position. He’s precise and determined in his movements now that he knows what needs to be done. If Shiro weren’t busy not-pouting, he’d admire the perseverance. 

Shiro watches, still definitely not moody pouting, as Keith strips himself of his armor, undoing the buckles and plates and letting them fall in a cumbersome pile near the door. Once he’s in his undersuit only, he slides into Shiro’s space and lifts his hands, undoing the buttons of Shiro’s uniform jacket for him. He knocks against Shiro’s arms until he unfolds them from their crossed position over his chest, and tugs the jacket down. Keith’s attentive, his touch gentle as he strips Shiro and then turns him, pushing him towards the bed. 

Rather than shoving Shiro down onto the bed, Keith drops down first. He scrambles over onto his side so his back is pressed to the nook’s wall, leaving plenty of room for Shiro. 

He looks up at him expectantly. 

Shiro just looks back at him for a moment. He can’t help it. Keith in a bed, on his side, weight on his elbow and forearm as he pushes himself up, his undersuit clinging to every curve and dip of his muscled chest. His hair’s been knocked loose from his braid and it falls haphazardly, the shorter pieces framing his jawline. 

Shiro’s heart gives one pathetic little twang in his chest and his mouth feels dry. But, after a moment that lingers far too long, Shiro sits down at the edge of the bed. 

“Happy?” Shiro asks, rolling his eyes as he lies down.

Keith’s smile is a little flicker of thing, lightning-fast and quicksilver sharp. “Very.”

“You don’t have to sound so proud of yourself,” Shiro mutters. 

Keith chuckles, his hand lifting to pat Shiro on the chest. His hand lingers, another moment too long, before he draws it away. Shiro lets out a little breath, missing the point of contact immediately. He really does need to get himself together, he thinks. 

Too much stretches between them. Too many moments, slowed down like molasses. An expectation between them. An almost. Keith’s eyes are soft in the dim greyed light of the room. 

“Just rest with me, okay?” Keith asks, and there’s no reason his voice should sound so hushed. 

Shiro sighs and tries to force himself to relax. He wishes Keith’s hand would press to his chest again. He turns a little, not quite curling into himself but leaning in closer towards Keith. He thinks about dimming the lights more, thinks about holding Keith in his arms. Thinks about how, probably, maybe, likely, Keith would let him. 

Keith smiles at him, something almost shy in his expression. “Almost like the journey back to Earth, huh?” 

Shiro lets out a little laugh. “You’d think the Black Lion would have better beds.” 

Keith chuckles, too, studying Shiro’s face. He frowns, thoughtful and private, and lifts his hand, pushing Shiro’s bangs back and away from his face, feeling his forehead. Shiro sucks in a quiet breath, his chest swelling. 

The silence stretches between them and then, quiet, Keith says, “You don’t have to push yourself so hard, Shiro.”

“I do.” 

The words come easily for him, a surety and knowledge he can’t deny. He does need to push. He’ll push himself as hard as it takes, every time. No matter what. 

But his response makes Keith frown more, something pinching in his expression. “Shiro.” 

It’s Keith, and it’s because it’s Keith that Shiro can let himself fumble over these words, struggling to put the thoughts to speech, collecting them and trying to distill them. 

“I need— I have to keep you— all of you safe. No matter what it takes.” He looks at Keith, meeting his eyes. Keith’s hand presses to his forehead, fingers tangled up in his hair. “Keith,” he says, quiet. “I know the war’s over, I just— need to do more.” 

“You do enough,” Keith answers, easily. He tugs, almost playfully, on Shiro’s hair. His words, though, are even and true: “ _You_ are enough, Shiro.” 

Shiro wishes he could believe that. He wants to, the way Keith says it. Shiro lets out a jerky little nod and sighs, closing his eyes and sinking against the pathetic, standard-issue pillow. It’s hardly comfortable. The entire bed is cramped, not designed for two grown men. 

Keith’s hand slips down his forehead and over his face, fingertips brushing his eyebrows, hand cupped over his eyes. 

“Just rest,” Keith tells him. 

 

-

 

Shiro doesn’t intend to fall asleep, and he doesn’t, not really. But one moment he’s resting, eyes closed, and the next moment, he’s startling awake with a gasp. 

Keith is pressed up against him, curled around his body like a shield. He also startles when Shiro startles and before his eyes are even open, he’s reaching for Shiro, pulling him into his arms. Keith is strong, always has been, and his hold is firm around Shiro, protecting him. There. Present. 

“Shh,” Keith whispers. “It’s okay.”

It’s too much like the journey back to Earth— back when Shiro couldn’t sleep at all without being rattled by nightmares about the astral plane. About a week into the journey, Keith started sharing the bed with him, always there to hold Shiro whenever he needed. 

“I’ve got you,” Keith says. He lets out a hiss a moment later and adds, “You’re burning up.” 

And maybe he is. He can’t tell. Keith touches his forehead and then his cheek and Shiro shudders, full-bodied and undeniable. His entire body is taut like a bow, muscles aching with fatigue. He feels weak, feels too helpless to do much of anything but slump into Keith’s arms and trust that Keith will hold him up. 

“Your hands are cold.” He sounds pathetic. 

Keith shakes his head, sympathetic. His eyes are shining in the dark. “Galra run hot, remember? You’re feverish.” 

“I’m fine,” Shiro insists. Keith gives him a look which would make anyone wither and wilt. “Keith—” 

Keith pets through his sweaty bangs, which really should objectively be disgusting but only serves to make Shiro feel gentled, centered in a way he can’t explain. He stares at Keith, trying to memorize the look on his face, to place it and understand it. His mind feels so fuzzy and Keith’s expression is softened at the edges. 

“Keith,” Shiro whispers again, soft and forlorn. 

Keith smiles at him and cups his cheek again, each touch soothing but reminding Shiro just how on fire he feels. “You’re so stubborn.” Keith pauses, watching his expression. “Do you think you can rest some more? Do you want medicine?” 

Shiro scrunches up his nose. “I’m not sick.”

“Sure you aren’t,” Keith mutters, petting one hand through his hair. 

“I’m not,” Shiro protests. “I’m just… tired.”

“Because you haven’t slept!” Keith replies, in what’s almost a snap. His brow furrows and he lets out a frustrated sigh. “Shiro, come on.”

“I’m fine.” 

“I’m worried about you,” Keith tells him. Shiro grunts, squinting at Keith. Keith frowns at him. “Oh, don’t give me that look,” he says, almost growls. “You— of course I’d worry about you.” 

“Right,” Shiro says, weakly, his voice sounding hoarse and scratchy. His throat feels all cracked up, the broken up earth in a dry desert. 

Keith groans. “Come on, Shiro. You’re my—”

“Brother.” Shiro has no idea what possesses him to say that, but it pops out of him before he can stop it. 

“—best friend,” Keith finishes and then drops swiftly into an intense silence. There’s a pause, as if thrown off-center, tripping along a tightrope. Keith swallows with an audible click in his throat. “Shiro—”

“I know,” Shiro interrupts, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m your best friend. I’m your brother.” He sighs. “I know that’s all we are.” 

“ _Shiro,_ ” Keith says again, a little more hushed. There’s a hesitation there. Shiro knows he’s pushing too hard against that line. The cliff face rises to meet him— daring him to jump, imploring him to step back again. 

The words settle inside Shiro’s skull, rattling around. He has no idea why he just said that. He grunts, and lets out a somber sound, a pathetic wheeze. 

“Oh,” he says, to himself. Oh. He just said that. Out loud. They’re talking about this now, apparently. 

_There’s something we need to talk about._ Apparently, the time to talk about it is when Shiro feels as if he’s about to die from a fever. He tries to steady his breathing. His heart rushes hard against his chest, swelling outward, threatening to burst. 

Shiro sucks in a deep breath, his words settling inside his skull. The breath wheezes out of him in a tired little sigh. 

“You know how people say that sleep deprivation is like getting drunk? I always thought that was exaggeration.” 

He doesn’t elaborate, and Keith makes a small noise of acknowledgement. After a moment, Shiro just rolls onto his side, curling into himself. He closes his eyes. 

He feels Keith’s hand against his spine a moment later, soothing and present. 

“Breathe, Shiro.” 

Shiro lets out another breath. 

The words hang between them. Shiro has no idea what to do to bridge it, fears the silence will open between them like a chasm. Isn’t that what they always do, anyway? Isn’t that what Shiro’s been doing since the moment he woke up in a body that was both his and not his? Since the moment he looked up at Keith and thought, _You saved me._

Thought, _I love you with everything I am._

How he never even said it back to Keith. Not after waking up. Not after the battle for Earth. Not after visiting Keith’s bedside in the hospital. Not after traveling the universe, fighting to save the day. Not after defeating Haggar, sweeping all their friends into a desperate hug, all of them— alive and safe and free. 

Shiro groans a little and closes his eyes. His hand lifts and presses against his face. “I feel like shit.” 

“Yeah, I _know_ ,” Keith says and Shiro can practically _hear_ the eye roll in his voice. “You’re so damn obvious, Shiro.” 

And he is, in the end. To Keith, at least, he’s always been obvious. It pushes back against that fear in his throat— that cliff’s edge, just a step away from tumbling over. _Shiro, I’m sorry, but you’re like a brother to me—_

Keith’s fingers curl around his wrist, drawing his face away so that Keith can meet Shiro’s eyes. They hold one another’s gazes for a long moment. Shiro blinks once, and then stills. He just looks at Keith, drinking him in. 

_Shiro, I’m sorry._ Maybe. Or, _Shiro, me too, me too—_

Shiro swallows down thickly. He watches Keith’s face, the way he studies Shiro in turn, his eyes burning, his face pinched with concern. The swell of his bottom lip, that mouth, always ready to smile back at him. His eyes trace the line of Keith’s scar, sliced across his cheek. His hand twitches, the urge to touch stronger than ever. 

“Can I please get you medicine?” Keith asks. Shiro wrinkles his nose and Keith scoffs, the thinnest note of amusement lacing in the sound. “You’re so— damn bull-headed,” Keith mutters. “Why do I put up with you?” 

“Because you love me,” Shiro says, with confidence. But as soon as the words jerk out of him, he’s left breathless, tensing up. He’s never said it so casually before, has never acknowledged it aloud. 

Keith’s gone similarly still, eyes wide as he looks at him. _What’s gotten into you?_ his look asks, but otherwise Shiro isn’t sure how to read Keith’s silence. 

“You,” Shiro whispers. “I mean…” 

He trails off helplessly, looking up at Keith. It looms between them, the air thick in this little ship. Shiro almost misses the sweltering, humid heat of the Arkarian vessel. Shiro swallows, about to say something when Keith speaks again. 

“Yeah,” Keith whispers. “I guess I do.” 

And leave it to Keith to be the one who hurtles himself off that cliff first, running straight past Shiro, turning back just as he starts to plummet so he can grab Shiro by the wrist and pull him over the edge with him. But that’s how it was always meant to be— they were always meant to fall together, in the end. 

The words hit Shiro like a roar and the gasp that punches out of him is pathetic. It isn’t as if he didn’t know, it isn’t as if he’s never heard it. But it’s weighted here now. It’s different. 

“I’ll always put up with you,” Keith says, but it might as well be _I love you_ with how gently the words come out, the fond press of his mouth into a small smile, his hand on Shiro’s chest. Something hitches up into Shiro’s throat and holds there, squeezing. He tries to speak but can’t quite manage it. 

And Shiro dares himself to hope. Lets himself hope. 

“Keith,” Shiro whispers. 

And Keith smiles, a tentative and beautiful little thing, and reaches for Shiro again, folding his arms around him and pulling him full-bodied to him. Shiro shivers, struck by how cold Keith feels next to him. And that’s unlikely, he knows— Keith has always run hot, has always been a furnace pressed up against his back, spooning him in the dark of the Black Lion. 

Shiro sighs, closing his eyes, tipping his head forward and burying his face against Keith’s shoulder. 

He murmurs, “This is nice.” 

“It is,” Keith agrees. His fingers thread through Shiro’s hair, his nails scratching along the curve of his skull. Shiro shivers again. 

Keith sighs. Shiro feels it rock through his body. Can feel every little space, every little spot, where Keith’s body touches him. He feels the rise and fall of Keith’s chest with his breath, the ghost of it against the shell of his ear. He could sink into Keith’s arms and never fear again. It’d be so easy. 

“Shiro,” Keith whispers. “Look at me?” 

Shiro hesitates but draws back, blinking a little as he meets Keith’s eyes. Keith’s expression is soft, fond and gentle at the edges, his smile hesitant but bright, the flash of a nova. He cups Shiro’s face in both his hands, his fingers curling along the line of his jaw. 

It feels so easy, so simple. How many times now has Keith touched his face and brought him in closer like this? 

There’s a heat in Keith’s eyes that wasn’t there before. Or, at least, something Keith didn’t kindle to life until now. 

“Shiro,” Keith whispers again. 

The response from Shiro’s throat is just a soft sound, inquisitive and confused. Inviting. Hopeful. His body aches. His soul aches louder. Every part of him feels as if it’s aching to reach for Keith, to sink into him and never let go again. 

They look at each other, gazes holding. And Shiro watches, as if in slow-motion, as Keith’s eyes slide shut and he leans forward, his hand soft against his cheek, his mouth looking even softer. Parting, leaning in closer. 

Shiro’s first instinct is to lean in closer to meet him— and then a second later he’s jerking back, his heart leaping into his throat. He’s halfway through the movement before he realizes it’s the wrong move to make because Keith freezes up, his eyes flying wide open and his entire face turning red, mortified. 

“Oh,” Keith says, a small, punched-out gasp. “Oh, shit, I—” 

“Sorry,” Shiro interrupts. “No, it’s not—”

Their words stumble over each other and they both jerk to an abrupt stop. Keith averts his eyes, his entire face crumbled in distress, cheeks burning red and chin quivering just once. A blink and you miss it gesture that stabs straight into Shiro’s chest. Keith’s hands scramble, fidget and search for something to connect to. He fiddles with his hair, tucking long pieces back behind both his ears, then fingers folding together behind his neck, hooked there as he ducks his head. 

“Fuck,” Keith whispers. “Sorry.” 

“Keith—” 

“I thought,” Keith begins, voice fragile and flickering, and then stops. He shakes his head, then bites his lip. 

The sudden thought that Keith will move back from him, leave this bed, slams through Shiro. Keith shifts, as if to minimize contact, and Shiro’s hand snaps out, grabbing Keith’s arm and stilling him. 

“Keith, wait,” Shiro gasps out, desperate. He squeezes his hand tight against Keith’s arm. “I want, I really… I really want.” 

The words sound stupid and clumsy on his tongue, but something eases on Keith’s face, smooths it out into something hopeful again. 

“But you shouldn’t kiss me,” Shiro says, miserably. “I’m sick.” 

Keith’s face scrunches up in surprise and then he lets out a bright, relieved laugh. It’s almost a snort, unbeautiful and _perfect._ “So you finally admit you’re sick.” 

Shiro’s mouth presses into a thin line and Keith lets out another helpless little laugh. 

“Shiro,” he says, quiet. He brushes the hair from Shiro’s face, expression unbearably fond. “Oh, Shiro.” 

Shiro nods, not sure what he’s responding to. Keith folds himself into his space and presses a kiss to his cheek, then the line of his jaw, then his ear. Shiro shivers, eyes falling shut. 

“Keith,” he says, not sure what else he can say. 

“I’m here,” Keith tells him. Then, crisp as a bell, mouth pressed to the shell of his ear, he sighs, “I love you. I _love_ you, Shiro.” 

“Oh,” Shiro gasps.

“And I—” Keith swallows. “I think you love me, too?” 

Shiro’s already nodding, pressing into Keith’s space. This time, when Keith kisses him, Shiro doesn’t protest it, doesn’t resist. His mouth pillows against his and Keith opens to him, arms tight around him, holding him close, an anchor. They fall over that edge. Together. Shiro never needed to fear.

“I love you,” he whispers into the kiss, and thrills at finally saying it aloud, at finally hearing it, knowing _Keith_ hears it, too. He feels Keith’s body bow beneath his hands where he grasps him, feels the little gasp of his breath as Shiro swallows it back down. 

“You’re really warm,” Keith mutters against his mouth, but then presses closer to deepen the kiss. “Guess your fever would have to be as stubborn as you are.” 

Keith makes to pull away and Shiro protests, feverish and flushed. He pulls Keith back in and kisses him, again and again and again. He’d kiss him forever if he could. 

“One more,” Keith relents and leans in, pressing his mouth gently to Shiro’s. It’s a barely-there kiss, just the ghost of Keith’s breath, the slide of his chapped lips. Shiro tries to chase him but Keith pulls away before the kiss can deepen. Shiro blinks owlishly up at Keith and Keith chuffs a quiet laugh, his hand tracing along the line of his jaw. 

“I don’t want this to be a dream,” Shiro tells him. 

“It’s not.” 

Shiro nods, accepting Keith’s words even as his heart thunders. Everything feels fuzzy and strange, and he supposes it’s the sickness and sleep deprivation. But, it feels too much like other dreams he’s had, waking up from something that felt so real but was never anything other than his hopes manifested. These were better dreams than his nightmares, but still always left something bittersweet in its wake— a relenting, all-encompassing ache for something that hadn’t ever existed in the first place.

Maybe not so, now. 

“Will you finally rest now or am I going to have to chain you to the bed?” Keith asks.

And really, it’s a testament to how shitty he feels that he can’t even laugh at the joke, or waggle his eyebrows, or anything. Instead, he just lets out a little groan. 

“I promise not to tell anybody that the big, important captain’s sick,” Keith tells him, stroking his chest. As far as commiseration goes, it’s not the best. But then Keith presses another kiss to his cheek and that’s better. 

“You’re the only one I’d trust with this,” Shiro tells him. 

“Really? You’re denying yourself some quality homemade soup from Hunk. Or pampering spa day from Lance. Or whatever weird remedy Allura might come up with.” Keith’s teasing again, but there’s something soft and vulnerable in the way he smiles at Shiro. 

Shiro can’t help but smile back. “Nope. Still only you.” 

It’s only ever been Keith. 

Keith laughs, eyes fond, and says, “You’re so fucking stubborn.” 

_But you love me anyway,_ Shiro thinks and then can’t hold back the relieved smile that thought pulls from him— letting out a bubbling laugh that Keith silences with another quieter, lingering kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject) (including the [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/commentbuilder)), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates responses, including:
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